


honey and mint

by elmshore



Series: a constant satellite of your blazing sun [4]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Car Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Other, Porn with Feelings, Smut, i just want it posted, kind of they're together but mason is being mason about it, look i don't know how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26449612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmshore/pseuds/elmshore
Summary: Mason attends a party for Cordelia's sake, but he's not having a very good time. At least, not yet.
Relationships: Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Female Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles)
Series: a constant satellite of your blazing sun [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1970686
Comments: 22
Kudos: 67





	1. been only thinkin' 'bout us

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt: "Sneaking away to a hidden corner to share a secretive kiss."

It really is a damn shame. Copious amounts of alcohol float about, flowing from cup to cup, and Mason can’t enjoy a single drop of the stuff.

Not that it would help, anyway — being a vampire kind of negates the ability to get drunk, and that’s without even getting into the taste. Even so, it would give him _something_ to do. His fingers itch at his sides, desperate for a cigarette, but his pockets are empty. The well-worn pack is back in his room at the Warehouse and well out of his reach, lying uselessly on his nightstand. _Fucking stupid move_ , a voice in his head hisses and he shakes it away, in no mood to hear himself right now.

How the fuck had he gotten himself roped into this, anyway? Oh, right.

 _Her_.

A memory, flashes of pleading hazel eyes and a smile, the one that always sends his heart into a weird sort of frenzy, leaving him warm and content in a way he still has no idea how to handle. One look is all it took and so here he is, stuck at some party he doesn’t give a single fuck about, because if there is anything Mason has learned by now, it’s that Cordelia is a hard woman to turn down.

Practically impossible, it seems, when he’s the one involved.

And if this were before, he would wonder why. It used to be so easy, turning people down and moving on, his interests free to wander and roam, looking for a good time and little else, but now…

Now he’s gone and let feelings tangle him up and things are complicated. Mason isn’t stupid, though. He knows what the emotions mean, what they _are_ — can tell by the way he craves her presence above all others, how she is the first and last thing he thinks of, the very essence of her a permanent part of him.

Somewhere, along the way, he let her put down roots and there’s no stopping it now.

Doesn’t want to stop it, if he’s being honest. It had taken him a while to realize what it all meant, but now that the feelings are there, Mason sees no point in denying them.

He loves her. It’s a strange and unknown sensation, and maybe just a little terrifying, but even he can recognize it. He loves her and he knows — thinks, _hopes_ — that she loves him too. The only problem, then, is that he can’t seem to tell her.

Confessions are not exactly his forte, after all, but even knowing this, it pisses him off. Each and every time he’s tried, he fucks it up. Three simple words, and he can’t even manage that.

They rise in his throat and get caught, sticky and thick, trapped there as he chokes on them. He’s sure she knows what he means to say, when he opens his mouth and just sits there, like an idiot — Cordelia always understands him, his actions and the unspoken words, even when he doesn’t understand himself. But, fuck, he _wants_ to say them, needs her to hear the words come from him, and Mason isn’t quite sure _why_ he needs it so badly, only that he does.

And so, here he is. A man who can’t even say three little words, glowering in the back of a party he doesn’t want to be at. Pressed up against the wall, arms crossed and using every last ounce of his willpower to resist the ever-growing urge to break something.

Anything, really, because at the moment he is far from picky.

His senses are screaming at him, fraying at the edges, and he feels jagged, sharp like broken glass. Music, far too loud, crashes over him like a storm — the beat practically pulsates through him, makes his legs shake and rattles his brain, rhythm scratching away at him incessantly. It mingles with the sounds of people, creates a cacophony that reminds him of nails on a chalkboard.

Felix would _love_ this, he just knows it. Would be out there, in the thick of the crowd — why the _fuck_ were there so many people here for this, anyway? — and right at home, dancing in that loose, easy way he always does, completely and utterly at peace with himself. A part of him wishes, suddenly, that they could trade places; that Cordelia had asked the younger vampire, not him, to accompany her and that he could instead be back in his room, where it is nice and quiet and completely devoid of people.

Unfortunately for all of them, Felix is on research duty tonight. And would be for every night this week, in fact, and despite his own dark mood, Mason can’t help but smirk at the reminder. Serves him right for fucking around in the first place and accidentally breaking Ava’s aviators. He’s still not sure _why_ he thought sending them sailing across the room in one of his flimsy paper planes had been a good idea and he doubts he’ll ever know.

The inner workings of Felix’s mind remains a mystery to him, and it’s not one he’s particularly interested in.

Distantly, the song changes, but he can barely tell the difference — same beat, different words. Why do people even listen to this shit?

Sure, Mason gives Cordelia flack about her own choice in music, but at least her stuff switches it up a bit every now and then — (and okay, _fine_ , maybe his tolerance is less about the type of music and more the fact that she sings along and it’s soothing and _kind of_ cute) — and isn’t afraid to add a little variety into the mix.

Also, she never listens to _anything_ at this volume. He knows humans have inferior hearing, but this is ridiculous.

Footsteps, approaching from his right, and a heartbeat, one he can’t quite place. Glances out of the corner of his eye and frowns. He recognizes the figure heading his way, met her earlier when they first arrived, and absently, he puts a name to the face. Phoebe Wolfe, the host and apparent reason for this party. She’d gotten some fancy new job outside of Wayhaven and was leaving, or something like that. Cordelia told him, on their way here, but he hadn’t really cared at the time.

Still doesn’t, honestly.

She’s pretty, though, with a curvy build and pale blonde hair, pulled back into a simple ponytail. Her black dress is low-cut and strapless, flattering against the slope of her figure, and Mason knows that before, in that quasi-dark time he no longer dwells on, his interests would be piqued, hunger flaring and ready for the hunt, but not now.

Oh sure, he can appreciate the view, but that pull just isn’t there anymore — his tastes lie elsewhere, in red hair and green eyes ringed in amber, sweet smiles and flushing cheeks, a lingering scent of lavender and citrus.

 _Can’t believe you’ve turned into a one woman kind of man, Mason!_ Felix’s voice rings in his head, bright and teasing, and he snarls. Clenches his fist and shoves it down, kicks it under a rug in his mind, and stomps down. Hard. He has to listen to him enough in the real world, he doesn’t need him in his head.

Phoebe is practically on him now and he focuses on her, because anything is better than Felix mocking him mentally. Her lips, painted a bright red, are spread into a friendly grin and she’s clutching a drink in her hand, the smell almost enough to make him gag — is she drinking beer or liquefied peaches? Mason isn’t sure and decides, quickly, that he really doesn’t want to know.

Fuck, but he’s glad Cordelia hates drinking. He knows it’s primarily because one sip is enough to turn her into a giggly, tipsy mess, but still, he’s grateful.

“Hey there,” she yells and he wants to tell her not to bother, that he can hear her even over the din of the party, but keeps his mouth shut instead. He may not really care much about the whole ‘don’t let the humans know’ thing, but rules are rules, and besides, he’d rather avoid having to listen to Ava lay into him for letting something slip.

The last time it happened, she’d yelled for two hours straight, and his head hurts just remembering it.

She parks herself next to him, against the wall, and while it’s nice of her to keep some distance between them, he’d prefer it if she just went away entirely. He’s not in the mood for conversation (when is he ever, truthfully), and there is something about her that pricks at him, a little niggling sensation just under his skin. Mason can’t quite put his finger on it, but it’s there — had been earlier, when Cordelia introduced them, and now, with her closer, it’s back in full force.

“You look lonely, standing all the way back here! Not enjoying the party?”

“Parties aren’t really my thing,” he grunts and it’s not a lie. Parties are always too loud or too crowded or just too _much_ , a waste of time.

“Then, why did you come?”

“Cordelia.”

“Ah,” she says and the sound of it bothers him, like she understands far too much for someone who just met him. “Where is she, anyway? Figured she’d be with you.”

He huffs out a heavy breath. “Tina dragged her off, no idea where they went.” And he hates it, really he does, but he’s trying his damndest not to dwell on it.

She hums, takes a sip of her disgusting drink, and throws him a look. “You know,” she starts, blue eyes sizing him up, and there is something in her gaze that puts him on guard. “When Lia first told me about you, I was apprehensive, but now that I’ve seen you, I’m not worried anymore.”

“Bit early to make that kind of judgement, don’t you think? I mean, you don’t know shit about me.”

“I’m a very good judge of character,” she shrugs and turns, shoulder bumping against the wall as she studies him, smile still in place. “I was just concerned because, well, her last relationship didn’t end so well. Did she tell you about it?”

He growls, more out of instinct than any conscious effort. She doesn’t say the name, but of course, she doesn’t need to. They both know _exactly_ who she’s talking about.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Phoebe says, looking down, and then sighs. “Still, it’s an accurate response,” she mutters and toys with the cup in her hand, tilts it back and forth, and he can hear the liquid sloshing inside. “Lia’s always been so smart, top of her classes for as long as I’ve known her, but she tends to follow her heart and it’s gotten her burned in the past. I didn’t want to see her hurt again,” she adds and her eyes are back on him, intense enough to give Ava a run for her money. “But I know you won’t hurt her.”

“And how the hell do you know that?”

“Like I said, excellent judge of character,” she laughs and spins around, head falling back as she stares up at the ceiling. “You’ve got a tough exterior, but I can tell that inside, you’re just a big softie. Especially when it comes to Lia. I mean,” she pauses and the look on her face is so smug he wants to break it, “you just said you hate parties and yet, here you are, all because she asked you to come.”

Mason glares at her, because that’s really all he can do.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Phoebe starts again, light and casual, “it is a little weird, knowing she’s dating a vampire, but as far as vampire’s go, she could do a lot worse.”

A chill shoots down his spine and Mason goes still, mind scrambling to make sense of the words. A joke, it had to be, but what if — no, _no_ , he cuts that thought off immediately. Grabs it up and tosses it out the nearest window. Tries to keep his expression neutral and swallows, throat too dry all of a sudden.

“Vampires? Don’t tell me you’re into that weird shit too.”

Phoebe laughs again and for just a second, longer than he’s comfortable with, she sounds like Felix. Cheerful, but always seeing more than she lets on. “Don’t worry,” she says and gives him a wink, “it wasn’t Cordelia who told me, she’s very good at keeping secrets when she needs to. No, I sensed it, the minute I saw you.”

And just like that, it clicks and he sighs.

“You’re not human, are you?”

“Nope! Glad to see my shielding charm is working, though,” she muses and raises a hand, tapping a finger against the small quartz stone earring.

“A witch.”

“Bingo! We have a winner!”

He rolls his eyes, lips twisting into a scowl, and suddenly, everything makes sense. 

Mason hates witches, from their easy way of seeing straight into the heart of a person to their stupid, cryptic way of somehow never saying what they mean outright and yet, at the same time, always managing to say more than he ever wants to hear.

“Does Cordelia know?” She’s never mentioned it, having a witch as a friend before, but then again, he’s never asked. He had only just learned about Eleanor, some weeks back.

“Oh, definitely! We’ve been friends since we were in like, third grade, she’s known for ages,” she explains, knocks back another shot of her drink, and chuckles. “She guessed right away, always did have a keen eye for that sort of stuff, and well, I didn’t want to lie to my friend, plus, it was nice having someone to show off all my new spells to.”

There’s a funny, almost sad, sort of irony to the fact that Agent Watson spent all those years trying to keep the supernatural world _away_ from Cordelia and the whole time, she’d been immersed in it. And he knows she still has no idea, still so in the dark.

“She’s never mentioned you.”

“Yeah, well, my parents weren’t too thrilled when they found out she knew, but she promised to keep it a secret, so they let it go,” Phoebe says and her head swivels to look at him, blue eyes bright. “She even helped me find Ferdinand!”

“Who?”

“Ferdinand, he’s my familiar.”

He grunts, but says nothing more. Get a witch talking about their stupid pets and there’s no shutting them up.

Silence creeps over them and he studies her, this witch friend he knew nothing about. He really shouldn’t be surprised, Cordelia is like a magnet for all things supernatural — like honey to flies, she draws them all in. It’s her blood, mostly, but he thinks there is something else. An openness to her, a warmth that pulls in others, the ones who don’t feel like they belong.

It worked on him, much as he tries to deny it — well, that, and the fact she’s fucking gorgeous.

Movement catches his eye and he watches as Phoebe practically skips away from the wall. Twists around and fixes him with a thousand megawatt smile. “Well, I’ve decided,” she announces, and he’s surprised her drink is still in her cup, what with the way she’s bouncing around. “I think you’ll be good for Cordelia! And she’ll be very good for you!”

He arches a brow, shoves his hands into his pockets, and barks out a laugh. “Oh? That so? Well thanks, didn’t know I needed your stamp of approval.”

“Well, you do!”

“Lucky me, then.”

She tilts forward and gives him another wink, smile shifting into a wicked smirk. “But just remember, you hurt her and I’ll hex your balls right off.”

And there is something in her tone which tells him, in no uncertain terms, that she can and _will_ make good on her threat.

“Anyway, I’m heading back into the fray, try not to stand here and brood all night, will you?”

“I’m not brooding,” he snaps and she laughs, the urge to hit her returning.

“You’re a vampire, you brood,” she says, tone leaving no room for argument, and then turns, heading off. Throws up a hand in farewell and yells, “See ya later, broody man!”

She is gone then, disappearing back into the throng of people she materialized out of, and he is alone. Again. He snarls, tilts his head back, and decides it’s best he _doesn’t_ let Ava know about this little witch friend of Cordelia’s, especially not since she’s going to be out of town soon. No, best to avoid all of that and just keep his mouth shut. He can do that, at least.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket and he growls, the vibrations catching him off guard, but then he makes out the ringtone and feels his frustration fade. Yanks it out, the screen lightning up instantly, and despite himself, he feels his lips tug into a smile at the sight of Cordelia’s name, bookended by little gold stars. A text notification hovers there, waiting, and he opens it.

> I’m so sorry for taking this long! Tina wouldn’t let me go, are you still in the same spot?

It’s fine  
And yeah still here

> Oh, good! I’m heading your way now! 💜

The heart is what does it. Breaks the dam and fuck, now he knows he’s smiling — that stupid little grin, the one Felix teases him endlessly over because he only does it around Cordelia, _for_ Cordelia, and he raises a hand. Drags it over his mouth and tries to wipe it away. Tucks his phone back into his pocket and just waits, tension easing at the knowledge that soon, she will be back at his side.

He has become so accustomed to having her near him now — steady presence wrapping around him like a blanket of calm, soothing and gentle. When she is next to him, she’s like a shield, keeping the world at bay and it makes being away from her that much harder, leaves him uneasy and off balance.

A new, yet oh so familiar, sound reaches him and he snaps to attention.

Mason remembers telling her, what feels like an eternity ago, how easy it is to learn the sound of someone’s heart. And it is true, it _is_ easy, but the statement seems to carry an entirely new meaning now. The cadence of her heart is burned into his mind and soul, a song forever stuck in his head, and he never wants it to leave. Lets it flow over him, seep into his bones and he feels the sharp edges of himself beginning to piece themselves back together.

And then she is there, emerging from the crowd, and the sight of her is enough to knock the air from his lungs.

She spots him and smiles, wide and open and _fuck_ , but he will never get tired of seeing it, of knowing it’s something only for him. Standing there, bathed in the gleam of the overhead lights, she practically glows — red hair, swept up into a messy bun, blazing like a flame and those hazel eyes shining, all of her emotions written plainly for him to see.

Four steps and she is in front of him and without thinking, he reaches for her. She meets him halfway and slides her hand into his, fingers lacing together, and the world softens around him. Blurs at the edges, smoothing out all the sharp cracks, and finally, he can breathe. The music and the people, she drowns all of it out.

Cordelia tugs at him and when she turns to leave, he follows. Will always follow her, no matter where she takes him. Lets her guide him through the mass of people, trailing after like she is a beacon in the dark, and then they are out, stepping into a dimly lit hallway. The space is empty and she takes a left, away from the den and further down, putting some much appreciated distance between them and the party still raging behind them.

When she stops, they are next to a stairway, and she lets out a quiet sound. Moves to face him, smile still on her lips, and gives his hand a little squeeze.

Here, this close, there is nothing but her — she is like a balm, soothing his aching senses, and he allows her to envelop him completely. Soaks in the sight of her, at the flush just starting to fade from her cheeks and the pretty little purple sundress she’d chosen, covered in golden stars and hanging temptingly short, just past her thighs. He teased her about it, because of course he did, but he has to admit, she looks good in it.

Even here, in this shadowed space, she shines.

“I’m so sorry, Tina just would not let me leave,” she says, voice low, and he rubs a thumb over her knuckles. “Are you okay?”

“I’m a big boy, sweetheart, I can handle a party,” he jokes, but can’t quite keep the affection out of his voice. Briefly, he considers telling her about his little meeting with Phoebe, but thinks better of it — plenty of time for that later.

She laughs and the sound resonates through him, fills all the little nooks and crannies, and he leans toward her. “Even so, I feel bad, I’m the one who dragged you out here and then I left you all alone,” she sighs, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, and a burst of heat roars to life in him.

Mason lifts his other hand and traces the curve of her cheek, the flush returning instantly, staining her cheeks a delicious shade of pink. “If you feel that bad, sweetheart,” he purrs, dropping his tone in a way that has her pulse pinging and heart fluttering like a hummingbird, “then I can think of a few ways you might make it up to me.”

Cordelia tilts her head back, looks up at him through those long lashes, and when her lips part to speak, he strikes. Dives down and captures her mouth with his own, hand sliding to the back of her neck. Mason growls hungrily at the noise she makes and moves them back, until she is caged against the wall. He has no intention of letting her go, not again.

The flavor of her is intoxicating, flooding through him — honey and mint and _Cordelia_ — and he revels in it, drinks and drinks until she is all he can taste.

Her hands grab at him, tangling in his shirt, and drags him closer. Mason feels her tongue slide over his and now, oh now his senses are buzzing, alight and aflame, but for an entirely different reason. He wants to get closer, to feel her flush against him, and so he drops his hands, runs them down her sides and then around, over that wonderful ass, and lower still. Curls his fingers around the back of her thighs and lifts, hoisting her up with ease.

She squeals, breaks the kiss and giggles, and he can’t hide his own chuckle. “Warn a girl next time,” she says, lips brushing against his with each spoken word, and he hums, pressing their foreheads together.

“Wouldn’t have to, if you weren’t so damn short,” he teases and when she huffs, he smirks. “Don’t worry, it just means you’re easier to hold.”

She goes to say something else, but he is faster and he cuts her off with another kiss. Swallows the words and yes, this angle is _much_ better. Cordelia moans, locking her legs around his middle, and untangles her hands from his shirt. Slides them up, gripping his shoulders, and he slows the kiss, takes his time to properly enjoy her. Fingers glide through his hair, nails ghosting along his scalp, and he’s not entirely proud of the whine that leaves him, but there is no helping it.

Pulls out of the kiss and lets his lips trail down, driven by the need to taste more of her, to leave no part of her untouched. Starts at her jaw and works his way up, teeth grazing the shell of her ear, and she shivers, her gasp only fanning the flames building within him. She whispers his name, breathless and loving, and he thinks he could listen to her say it for the rest of his life.

If he’s lucky enough, he might just get that wish.

Continues his journey, downward now, and makes a beeline for her throat. Traces his mouth over the faint, barely there, remnants of her scar and she arches into him, grip on him tightening. She pants now, heart thundering in her chest and pulse racing and the heat coming off of her is overwhelming, suffocating in the best way. He wants to lose himself in it, in her, until they are no longer two but one.

He nips, sucks a mark into the tender flesh, and snarls at the heady whine this earns him. Dares to look up only to find her staring back at him, eyes bright and so very alive, flushed and smiling. “You’re so fucking amazing, Starlight,” he murmurs, the nickname coming unbidden, and then surges up. Claims her lips for his own and falls into her.

She meets him eagerly, the kiss hungry and desperate, and Mason lets one of his hands wander — only needs one to hold her, the perks of vampire strength _and_ having a tiny girlfriend — and she gasps into the kiss as his fingers drift along her inner thigh, inching up and up, his intent clear. Already, he can feel — _smell_ — how wet she is, and it propels him forward, lust howling within him like a caged beast.

He is so close now, brushing against the silk of her underwear, when he feels a hand wrap around his wrist and the touch is light, easily broken, but he stills. Cordelia leans back, out of the kiss, and draws in a deep, shaky breath. “Mason, wait,” she urges and oh, he loves the way she sounds when she gets like this, voice rough and spent.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” His lips hover near the corner of her mouth and her pulse spikes, heart beating like a hummingbird. The hand still curled around the back of her thigh squeezes and she jumps, swollen lips parting in a soft gasp.

“No, it’s just,” she pauses, obviously fighting against her own lust to find the words she needs, and continues, “we can’t do this here, not in Phoebe’s house!”

“Why not?”

“ _Mason_.”

He smirks and raises up, staring down at her as a predator might survey their prey. “Don’t tell me you’re ashamed of me, sweetheart, or I might just cry.”

Cordelia swats at his shoulder, cheeks turning nearly the same shade as her hair, and frowns up at him in a way that only makes him want to kiss her again. “No, just, it’s a bit rude, to do… _this_ , in someone else’s house!”

“I’m happy to move this elsewhere, if that’s what you want, Starlight.” And he is, because the location hardly matters to him — the only certainty right now is that he wants her, the _how_ and _where_ is flexible. 

She seems to mull his words over, clearly tempted, and an idea strikes him, lips spreading into a lazy grin. 

“There is always the back of your car, sweetheart.”

The hitching, strangled sound she makes is music to his ears.

Carefully, he lowers Cordelia to the floor — feels a bit of pride at the way she wavers, legs shaking — and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his side. Curls his fingers into her hip and leans down, lips brushing against the side of her head. “Sound like a plan to you, sweetheart?”

And, to his surprise, she nods. 

“Wait, really?”

“Changing your mind, sunshine?”

The smile on her face is playfully, pink lips glistening in the dim light, and it takes all of his willpower not to take her right here. Pushes through his shock and returns the smile, giving her hip a light pinch that has her giggling. 

“Never, sweetheart, not when I’ve been hoping for ages to get you into that backseat.”

She rolls her eyes, but slides one of her arms around his middle in return and starts them down the hallway, Mason keeping pace with her, long legs slowing to match her speed. He opens the door when they reach it and together, they step out into the chilly night air. 

Mason inhales, glad to be out of that house, and getting an idea, smirks. Pauses and in a motion too fast for her human eyes to track, sweeps her up and off her feet. She lets out a cry and throws her arms around his neck, holding on tight. 

“ _Mason!_ ” She tries so hard to sound angry, but there is too much laughter in her voice, and that smile is still there, wider than ever.

He takes the steps two at a time and lands on the sidewalk with a light thud, turning on his heel and heading to where he remembers her parking her car. Despite her half-hearted protest, she settles in his hold easily enough and he feels her head rest against his shoulder, fingers playing with a few strands of his hair.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, muffled against the fabric of his shirt, and he gives her a confused look.

“For what?”

“For coming with me, I know you didn’t really want to, but it means a lot that you did.”

Mason lets the words sit between them for a moment, absorbs them, then tucks them away for a rainy day and chuckles. “No need to thank me, sweetheart. You asked, I came, and besides,” he says, tone lowering to a croon, “I had plenty of fun, there at the end.”

“Well, maybe we can keep the fun going?”

He arches a brow at her, but his grin gives him away. “You all right, Starlight? You’re pretty damn bold tonight, not that I mind, of course.”

“Get me to the car, and I’ll show you how bold I’m feeling.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Her answering laugh is as clear and bright as the stars shining above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...listen, I hate this. I have been fighting with this thing for three days and I hate it and I am done. It's five thousand words of, I don't even know, and I can't look at it anymore. Hopefully someone likes this, because I'm tired.


	2. just let me adore you

Really, he ought to get a medal, for holding out as long as he did.

Now, to his credit, Mason’s never claimed to be a patient man — memories of _before_ notwithstanding, naturally, seeing as how they’re currently trapped behind a wall he has no interest in tearing down, concrete slabs held firmly in place by spite and denial — and so, honestly, it’s a fucking miracle that he’s lasted this long.

They have to be twenty minutes out from the Warehouse when he convinces her to pull over.

Shockingly, it takes little effort. A hand on her thigh, drawing little circles that have her muscles jumping and twitching under his touch. Mouth at her throat, low whisperings of _exactly_ what he planned to do to her. Teeth on the shell of her ear and it’s this one, he thinks, that does it. She complies quick enough, pulls off the road and to the side, into some darkened patch. Puts the car on idle and in a burst of speed that would make any vampire proud, she is on him. Crawls over the center console and into his lap.

Cordelia kisses him like she is starving, a woman savoring her last meal on this earth.

His lips part for her instinctually, drawn open by her insistence, and when her tongue slicks over his, he groans. The taste of her fills him and he is drunk on it, head swimming with the saccharine flavor, honey and mint, cloying in its own intoxicating way. He knows it well, this sweetness — it comes to him on those long, lonely nights when she is away, gone and out of reach.

A little voice, hushed and treacherous, wonders: does her blood taste the same?

Would it carry the same rich, honeyed quality? Warm and candied, smooth as he — Mason stops that thought cold. Takes it in his hands and shreds it to pieces, until there is nothing left, not even a tiny fragment. Refuses to give it room to breathe, to become a problem, and instead, focuses on her.

On the feel of her in his arms, warm and alive. His hands at her waist, those gorgeous legs braced on either side of him, and her weight, a comforting reminder that she is here. Against all odds, she is here with him — she chose _him_ , above all others, and he still can’t quite wrap his brain around that, how someone like her could ever want him, with all of his broken and jagged edges, too sharp and too broken to ever fully fix.

He worries that one day, she will be caught on those edges. She’ll prick her finger like one of those princesses in the fairy tales except, there will be no sleeping curse; she will break instead, bloody and ruined, and it will be his fault. 

Her lips are at his jaw, featherlight, and he hums. “Are you with me?” She asks and he almost curses, berates himself for thinking she wouldn’t notice. She always notices his shift in moods, can pinpoint the exact moment he starts getting too lost in his own head. And sure, he knows all he has to do is start talking — she would listen, of course she would — but saying the words out loud makes them real, too _real_ , and he can’t do that. Hasn’t the courage for such things, not yet.

So, he gathers up all of the annoying emotions scurrying about in his brain and chucks them into a box. Shuts it tight, puts it under a padlock, and then kicks it, hard as he can, into the darkest, dustiest corner available. Draws in a breath and says, “Yeah, just thinking about how I’ve been waiting all night to get under this dress of yours, sweetheart,” and it’s not a lie, not fully, so he thinks it's okay.

Cordelia laughs, soft and loving, and it feels like a switch being flipped inside of him. All the cold, lonely parts of himself coming back to life, drawn to her like a moth to flame, helpless against the pull of her gravity. “Hardly a surprise,” she teases and when she tilts back, her hazel eyes are so damn bright, even in the dim light of the car. “I bet that’s why you agreed to come in the first place, isn’t it?”

Mason lets a hand drop to her leg and squeezes, not missing the way her pupils dilate, pulse spiking. “That’s not nice, sweetheart, maybe I just wanted to spend time with you?”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” she says and there is a force in her tone that catches him off-guard. It is still her, still his Cordelia, but… different. Bolder, in a way he’s not entirely used to from her, and yeah he likes it, but he wonders where it’s come from. Should he ask? It could be — 

But then she kisses him, teeth nibbling at his lower lip, and when she looks at him again, she smirks. “Are we going to keep the fun going like you promised, or should I keep driving?”

His mind skids to a halt, left only with desire, blinding and savage.

The move from front to back is not a graceful one. Her car isn’t really designed for such things — as they detangle themselves, he briefly pictures _Nat_ trying to do this and almost snorts, the image reminding him of a giraffe flailing about — but he is nothing if not determined. This has been on his to-do list for ages, both figuratively _and_ literally, and he’s not about to miss this chance.

Close quarters be damned, he’s going to fuck her in this car, one way or another.

She goes first, wriggling out of his lap and over the seats. Makes it part of the way before her foot gets caught in the seatbelt and she fights to free it. The sight is enough to make him laugh and when she growls, the sound is hardly as intimidating as she’d hoped. “Hush and help me!”

“Fine, hold on,” he smirks and it is easy enough to get her foot free. He gives her a little shove — _maybe_ lets his hand linger on her ass for a second, or two, longer than necessary — until finally, she is over. “Okay back there, sweetheart?” And oh, it’s cute when she glares like that, lips pouty and eyes narrowed, trying her hardest to look scary.

Not that she _hasn’t_ looked scary before, of course — he shudders at the memory. Who knew someone so tiny could be so ferocious?

“Be quiet and get back here!”

“You’re so bossy tonight,” he says, feigning offense, but obeys the order all the same.

His climb back is, somehow, even worse. So much for the supposed vampiric grace, instead his long limbs get in the way at every angle and as he clambers up, working his way over the seats, he hits just about everything on his way.

Slams his knee into the gearshift, the pain enough to have him swearing, and yet, he presses on. Is very nearly there when he knocks his foot — he’d abandoned his shoes the minute they were in the car, thankfully, just as she had — against the dashboard console. It hits the radio button and immediately, loud pop music fills the car, screeching at his ears.

“Fuck!” He snarls and with even more effort than it took to get into this position, twists around, reaching for the damn thing. Mashes it off with a bit more force than is necessary and the song fades, leaving him with only a ringing in his ears and the sound of Cordelia’s laughter. Ignoring it for now, he resumes his task and finally, mercifully, finds himself in the backseat. Plops down and exhales, sharp and heavy.

The things he does for sex, honestly.

“Next time, we’re using the fucking doors,” he growls and she only laughs harder. “Oh yeah, real funny,” he snaps, but there is little bite to his tone, and she only barely manages to smother her amusement, biting her lip in an effort to keep it down, but he can still see it glimmering in her eyes. So, she wants to be like that, huh?

Fine, he can play that game.

He strikes, faster than her human eyes can track. Grabs her around the waist and hoists her up, off the seat and into his lap. Her legs straddle him and like this, the heat of her floods into him, seeps into his bones like liquid fire and he is keenly aware of her body atop his own. She gasps, hands at his shoulders, and he smirks.

“Still think it’s funny, sweetheart?”

Her lips part, full and pink, and unable to resist, he kisses her again. Perhaps he’s only traded one addiction for another — her mouth instead of cigarettes — but if so, he’s definitely not complaining. She melts into his hold, presses herself closer and opens to him fully. Mason folds his arms around her, hands pressed flat against the small of her back, and loses himself in the flavor of her.

With every roll of his tongue over her own, she makes soft, barely there sounds, and he stores every one of them. Tucks them away in the part of his mind reserved solely for her, for safekeeping.

One of her hands curls around the nape of his neck, fingers toying with a few wayward strands of hair, and he groans, the touch electric, a skittering tingle zigzagging through his nerves and down to his toes, body buzzing with need.

She moves atop him and he snarls, holds her still. Pulls away from her lips and trails wet, open kisses down her jawline, erratic pathways to her throat. “See you were prepared,” he murmurs, tongue licking a stripe across the faint scar still marring her skin, “putting a towel down, were you hoping to get me back here, sweetheart?”

“It’s not — _fuck_ ,” she hisses when he nips at her, not hard enough to break the skin, but more than enough to get her blood pumping. “I put it down last week,” she says, raspy and shallow, “when I took Cara and Lacey to the lake.” He dips down, over her pulse, and sucks a mark into the tender flesh. “Mason, fuck,” she whimpers, sways in his hold, and he chuckles.

“That is the idea, sweetheart.”

“Smartass,” she mutters, more for herself than him, and he grins. Leans back and oh, she looks absolutely beautiful — cheeks flushed and chest heaving, lips swollen and shiny. Divine, in a way; cast in shadow, illuminated only by the dim glow of a nearby streetlamp, and he realizes, with a sudden and almost terrible force, that she is the only thing he wants to look at for the rest of his life.

It threatens to overwhelm him, to pull him under the waves until he is gone, and so he ignores it. Stomps down on it, strangles it, until it fades and is little more than a faint, scratchy feeling in the back of his head.

Says, instead, “Let’s get you out of that dress, hm?”

And similarly to avoiding his emotions, the task proves easier said than done.

Cordelia shimmies out of the dress with about as much grace as she can muster, given the circumstances. The angle is odd and while she _is_ short, being in his lap gives her a slight height boost, enough that she can only lift her arms so far before they meet the roof of the car. It makes the ordeal slow and awkward.

She twists, this way and that, and when she slams her elbow into the hood, she curses and he snorts, managing at the last minute to swallow his laughter. At least, until she glares and he loses it. “You could help, you know,” she grumbles but he merely lounges back, arms dropping uselessly to his sides.

“Why? You’re putting on quite the show, sweetheart.”

“You’re such a jerk,” she says and he gives her leg a slight pinch in retaliation. It earns him a slap on the shoulder, but also a criminally adorable squeak, and so, he deems it worthwhile.

“I’m your jerk, though.”

Her annoyance vanishes, replaced by a smile that has his heart flip-flopping all over the damn place, and he barely registers that the dress is off now. She tosses it onto the floorboards behind her and leans down, brushing her lips over his own in an almost-kiss. “You are,” she agrees and with two words, he is dizzy, off-balance and damn, but she’s good at that.

Mason kisses her. Partly out of sheer desire, yes, but also because he doesn’t know what else to do — needs the familiarity, the stability, that her mouth brings to him. It is fierce, devouring, and feels like coming home.

And that’s it, isn’t it? She feels like home and it terrifies him, in a way he can’t fully explain.

He reaches for her again, hands shaking in their need to touch her, to commit every line and contour to memory. One settles at her back, skims along the dips and curves of her spine, and she makes a quiet, needy sound in the back of her throat that sends a bolt of desire crackling through him. Mason reaches his goal quick enough and with a deftness borne of experience, unclasps the hooks of her bra. 

“Not going to rip it this time?” She asks, ducking out of the kiss to hurry and remove the item. Drops it to the pile, and he scoffs.

“I rip a bra one time and you never let me hear the end of it.”

“Because that was my favorite bra!”

Mason rolls his eyes, but says nothing else, and merely takes a moment to enjoy the sight of her. Over his long lifetime, he’s seen plenty of women — and men — naked, delighted in bodies of various shapes and sizes, each one offering its own unique brand of pleasure. And yet, none of them have ever had quite the effect that Cordelia has on him.

She is stunning, yes, but that’s just a fact. It’s more than that. And he knows what it is, of course — understands the emotion that sings in his blood at the sight of her, has him craving her in every way a person can be desired, physical and more, so much more. Could give it a name, if he dared — and he has, in the quiet darkness, when they lay entangled in bed, when no one can hear him and it is safe. Even now, it sits on the tip of his tongue, close and yet so far, and he chokes it back down.

Maybe one day, but not today.

Right now, she is practically nude in his lap and that, Mason thinks, is far more pressing than any feelings he is too afraid to face.

He takes one of her breasts in hand, cups it, rolls the nipple between the pads of his thumb and index finger. Tugs, pinches in just the right way to have her whining, back bowing and he drags a tongue over his lower lip. Tilts forward and, carefully, leans her back. She raises an arm, plants a hand flat against the roof, and yes, this will do nicely.

Closes his lips around the other breast, tongue lapping lazily over it, and her moan practically reverberates in his chest. 

“Mason, _yes_ ,” she sighs and it truly is lovely, her wanting. His teeth scrape across the tender nipple and she shudders against him, a growl rising in his throat at the motion, cock straining and twitching in his pants.

Her own arousal is clear and he glides his other hand up her leg, curls his fingers into the slick slope of her inner thighs, and curses — _fuck_ , but she’s so damn wet. He runs a thumb between the crease where her leg meets the body and the sound she makes is music to his ears. She rocks into him, desperate for the friction, and his own body responds instantly, drawn to her heat. Mason can smell her, the sharp tang of desire driving him forward and filling his senses, until she is all he knows.

All it takes is one, quick movement to slide past the final barrier. He slips a finger through her folds and her breath stutters, stalls, and her heart pounds wildly in her chest, hammering against her ribs like a beast, howling and ravenous. Nails dig into his shoulders, bunch in his shirt, and the pain is little more than a dull sting, her presence smoothing the rough edges. Mason keeps his pace slow, even, and she whines, protesting, demanding more.

He dips another finger into her and that noise becomes a strangled cry, mouth open and his name falling from it, over and over, as if on a loop.

His thumb traces little circles around her clit, rolls over it, and repeats the action. She mewls, hand slapping against the hood of the car, and her eyes flutter between open and shut. “Oh, _oh_ , fuck, Mason,” is all she can manage and he loves this, derives a totally new kind of pleasure from seeing someone so eloquent reduced to such a mess, unmade and undone at his hand.

Mason sits back, appreciating the view, and never once lets his pace falter. “You’re so wet, sweetheart,” he purrs, eases in a third finger, and adds, “dripping all over the place, did I make you this wet?”

“Yes,” she pants, without hesitation, and drops her arm, body tipping forward. She leans into him and her hair spills around them like a fiery curtain, foreheads bumping together. “Mason, please,” she pleads, eyes closed, and the expression on her face is wonderous — he thinks he could live a thousand years and never forget the way she looks in this moment.

“Tell me,” he demands and she shivers, body alert at his tone, “tell me what you want.”

And she does. “Touch me, please, _Mason_ , I need you,” the words tumble out of her and he snarls, a wolfish sound that has her whining.

His fingers slide into her effortlessly, body pliant and ever welcoming, yielding to him. Crooks them, sheathed to the knuckle, and she writhes, moans echoing in the small space around them. Every breath creates little clouds between them, the air hot and charged, and he can feel the sweat beading along their skin — it gathers at the back of his neck, while little drops run down between the curve of her breasts. A manifestation of their passion.

She kisses him, all teeth and tongue, and he fucks her. Presses the heel of his palm into her cunt, fingers spreading inside of her, and rubs his thumb over her clit, lets it linger a second more. He can _feel_ her pleasure running down his hand, soaking the fabric of his jeans, but he hardly cares at the moment — relishes it, the knowledge that _he_ did this to her. 

Cordelia bucks into his hand, rocks against his fingers, and he lets her dictate the pace, follows her lead, until she is forced to end the kiss and coils a hand into his hair, faces mere inches apart. “Feels so good,” she moans and a swell of pride erupts in his chest. This is, after all, his favorite part.

The pleasure he brings to her, it’s all that matters.

And oh, she is close now. He can feel it in the way she tenses with every thrust, pulse racing and heart stutter-stopping between every frenetic beat. Turns his head, lips at her ear, and growls, “You going to come for me, sweetheart?”

“I want to,” she whimpers, mouth pressed into the curve of his cheek, and really, she shouldn’t be allowed to say things like that. Then, adding fuel to the fire, she continues, “Make me come, please,” and who is he, to resist such a plea?

Mason’s speed turns ruthless, fingers curving and flexing until words are no longer an option, until all she can do is sing for him, every moan and whine a melody the likes of which he’s never heard before. Darts his thumb across her clit, tracing firm little circles, and she breaks. Comes apart in his arms, body going tense and head slumping against his shoulder.

His name is said once, twice, and then a third time more. Cordelia rocks into him, frantic and shameless, legs quivering. He fucks her through it, lets his touch be a port in the storm of her pleasure, and she floats down, muscles going slack as she sags into him, breath hard and shallow.

Reluctantly, his fingers leave her and she shifts back, straightens, hands braced on his shoulders to keep herself steady. Stares at him with those too green eyes, ringed in brilliant amber, nearly glowing in the half-life. And she is still watching as he lifts a hand and, one by one, licks his fingers clean. Cordelia bites her lip at the sight, heat blossoming on her already flushed cheeks, pupils blown wide and black, dark with lust.

Just like every other part of her, it’s a flavor he cannot seem to get enough of — sweet, but with a pleasant tartness.

When he finishes, making a show of licking his lips for added effect, she leans in. Takes his face in her hands and claims his mouth for her own. He invites her in, lets her taste herself on his tongue and swallows her moans, holding her flush against him. Pauses only to whisper, “Fuck me, please,” before she is back, their breath becoming one.

Always so polite, his Cordelia.

He moves. Curls his fingers around her middle and leans forward, twisting. Turns, to his left, and lays her down atop the blanket covered seat. She _just_ fits, head resting against the door, one leg bent up at his side and the other dangling off the edge. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a rolled-up towel peeking out from under her dress and bends over, snatching it up. “Sit up,” he directs and she does so, allowing him to slide it under her head.

She lies back and smiles at him, affection clear in her gaze. “Aw, that’s so considerate, thank you,” she says, hands moving to adjust the towel a bit more to her liking, and he rolls his eyes.

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

Done with her task, her hands are on him, plucking at the hem of his shirt and the smile is different now, hungry in a way that has a sharp sensation coiling deep in his belly. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” she breathes, catches his eye, and bites her lip. “I don’t think that’s very fair, sunshine.”

Mason might be a _little_ ashamed to admit the way his cock jumps at the nickname, rarely used, and so he hides it with a smirk. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

The jacket is the first thing to go, thrown across the headrest of the passenger seat, and then his shirt. It proves a little more difficult, his long arms having very little room to maneuver, and it’s only after he slams his head on the roof, a string of curses following immediately after, that Cordelia intervenes. “Lean forward,” she laughs, and he does so, grumbling all the while.

She grabs hold of the shirt and tugs, working it up and over his torso, and together, they get it off. It drops to the floor, joining the steadily growing pile, and he suppresses a shiver, as the air hits his bare skin.

Her hands find him in the dark, ghost over his flesh, and he groans, each one sending little tremors dancing along his nerves. She traces the planes of his abdomen, the curve of his hips and up, capturing every inch of him, memorizing them. Her fingers bump against the crystal worn around his neck and she takes hold of it gently, rubs a thumb over the smooth surface, and he swears he shivers, a low, wanting sound bubbling in his chest.

Then, she is moving, arching up and her mouth joins her hands, following the same winding pathways. She veers off, soft lips leaving a searing trail along his skin, and toward a new goal. Kisses each of his freckles, leaving none of them untouched — the spattering on his sternum, a bundle near his heart, and the patchwork dotting his collarbone.

One by one, cluster by cluster, she finds them. Mason recalls how once, she called them stardust. Likened the patterns to constellations, even gave them silly names that had him rolling his eyes and kissing her, if only to make her stop, and it’s ridiculous even now, but he smiles all the same. 

Keeps the memory locked safely away, so he can’t ruin it, because that’s what he does — breaks precious things, destroys them beyond repair.

_She may willingly break with you._

The words crash into him, rush over him like ice water, and he snarls, a guttural thing, rough and raw. Grabs her arms, firm and frenzied, and pins her back down. She gasps, but the sound is swallowed by his mouth on hers, and he gives all he is into the kiss. Drowns himself in her, until that voice is little more than static, flickering and faint.

He falls into her, leaves her mouth and travels down, over her jawline and further still, lips settling at her throat. Tastes the salt coating her skin, uses it as a tether to keep him in the moment, _this_ moment. 

Fingers glide down his chest, curl into his waist, and she nudges him back. As always, Mason complies — he is helpless against her demands, no matter how often he denies it to Felix. “You’re still wearing too many clothes,” she says, gaze dropping to his pants, and he cocks an eyebrow.

“Impatient, aren’t you?”

She huffs, face nearly as red as her hair, and tightens her hold on him. “Either you take them off, or I’ll take them off _for_ you.”

“Might like to see that, actually,” he teases and when she glares, he laughs. Drops a kiss to her lips and sets to the task of removing his pants.

Thankfully, it proves a great deal easier than the shirt — after all, he just needs them out of the way, no need to remove them all the way — and it takes only a moment to unzip and shove them down, boxers following along. When he dares a glance back up, she is watching him, eyes trained on his form and bottom lip pulled between her teeth and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like the way her gaze lingered between his legs.

“See something you like, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” she says, barely above a whisper, “you.”

The answer is unexpected, has him scrambling for a response, and when no words come, he acts. Leans forward and kisses her. She returns it just as eagerly, fingers splayed across his chest, and when he pulls back, she seems to dip toward him, seeking his lips in a way that makes him grin.

“What’s gotten into you? You’re so bold, all of a sudden.”

“Are you complaining?”

He snorts, hard. “No, just curious.”

She is silent, gears turning in her head, and he waits, patient for her in a way he is with no one else. “I’ve spent so long holding myself back, not allowing myself to be happy because I thought I didn’t deserve it, but,” she pauses, chews at her lip, and sighs, “I’m tired of living like that. I want to be happy, and you make me happy, Mason.”

His heart skips a beat as the words spin in his brain and he draws in an uneven, shaky breath, one he doesn’t technically need but seeks anyway, a leftover habit from what little shred of humanity still clings to him.

 _You make me happy_.

A hand, warm and soft, curls against his cheek and he leans into the touch, relaxes. _You make me happy too_ , he wants to say, but the words won’t come — they linger at the back of his throat, sharp and sticky, and he can’t force them out, no matter how he tries. Lets them go, burning on their back down, and adds them to the heap of things he wishes he could say but still hasn’t found the strength to vocalize.

Instead, all he can manage is, “I want you, now.”

“You have me,” she says and in those three words, he finds where he belongs.

Everything he can’t say, all the words and emotions he’s too afraid to deal with, he pours into his kiss. Hopes, beyond hope, that she will understand — knows that she will, because this Cordelia, and she understands him in a way no one else ever has.

She breaks away, breathless, and frees a hand, pointing toward the front of the car. “Condom, glove box,” she whispers and he grunts, the message crystal clear.

“Surprised you keep condoms in your car, sweetheart,” he teases as he leans over between the seats, hand braced against the headrest, and reaches for the little compartment. 

“I have to,” she says and one of her hands is drawing little circles at his hip, so tantalizingly soft that he fumbles, for a second, in trying to grab the handle. “Never hurts to have some on hand, with you around.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he mutters, lips spreading into a proud grin and finally, he gets the damn door open. Rummages around inside, wondering just why she has so much stuff in her car, until eventually he finds his prize. Tugs the little square package out and closes the glovebox, moving back into position above her. Goes to open it only for her to snatch it away from him, a playful smile on her plump lips.

Cordelia tears it open and throws the wrapper off to the side, where it vanishes into the shadows, a problem for later. Raises up and reaches for him, slender fingers wrapping around his length, and he snarls, hips bucking into her touch of their own accord. Her thumb glides over the tip and he can’t stop the moan rising in his throat, powerless as it tears out of him.

She knows exactly how to touch him, twists her wrist _just right_ on the downward stroke, and he bends forward, head bowed, his own breath shallow now. “Fuck,” he hisses and he has to do something, before he loses control, before she utterly destroys him. 

His hand surges down, takes hold of her wrist, and forces her still. Hears her giggle, and the sound sends a fresh wave of heat to his cock. Gray eyes meet hazel and he scowls, or tries to, with her fingers still brushing against him. “If you’re putting the condom on, then do it.”

“Who’s the impatient one now, hm?”

“ _Cordelia_.”

Her lips for a perfect little ‘o’ as she stares up at him. “Wow, you _almost_ sounded as serious as Ava, just now,” she muses but does, in a show of compassion, _finally_ put the condom on him. She is precise and it goes on with ease. “There, all done.”

“Not quite,” he growls, and she blinks, confusion clear on her face. Mason lets go of her wrist, slides his hands between them, and hooks two fingers under the band of her underwear. “Gonna have to get these off,” he rumbles and watches, with keen interest, at the way her throat moves as she swallows.

“Okay, but, be careful — ”

A distinct, audible _rip!_ is heard, and her words taper off, becoming a choking gasp as she stares at him in shock. Mason smirks and easily removes what’s left of the fabric, dropping it to the floor, grunting harshly when a knee slams into his side. “What the fuck?”

“You ripped my underwear!”

“I got’em off, didn’t I?”

“ _Mason!_ ”

“Relax, sweetheart, I’ll buy you more if you really care that much,” he says and this seems to pacify her, as she settles back against the seat, and he gives himself a moment to simply bask in the sight of her.

Red hair splayed out around her like a fiery halo, hazel eyes wide and shining, lips swollen and parted. She is beautiful, heavenly, and _his_.

One of her legs lifts, coils around his own, and he reaches back; hooks an arm under the other leg, the crook of his elbow resting just under her knee, and shifts. Pulls her toward him and the position is awkward, with him hunched over in the limited space, but it ceases to matter when he presses himself against her and hears his name whispered, soft, like a prayer. 

He takes himself in hand, teases the tip along her folds, up and down, and _fuck_ , but she’s still so wet. It takes every last ounce of willpower he has left to wait, wants to draw this out, to savor it while he can.

“Mason,” she purrs, hands sliding up his chest, nails pricking at the skin before they settle on his shoulders, hanging on. “Mason, _please_ ,” she begs, hips rolling toward him.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he growls, primal and ravenous, his own body tight, a predator ready to strike. “I want to hear you say it.”

She whines, desirous and wanton, and says, “Fuck me.”

He sinks into her slowly and time seems to slow around them. There is little resistance, she welcomes him eagerly, and they moan together, mingling in a beautiful echo that settles deep in his chest. She is tight, and so fucking hot, a wildfire in the shape of a woman. Lulls him in deeper, like a siren calling to a sailor at sea, and Mason wonders, in the part of his brain that can still form rational thoughts, if it’s strange, to consider another person’s body a home.

Decides he doesn’t care — strange or not, she is home now, body and soul, he belongs to her.

“Fuck,” he pants, leans forward, and thrusts, hips rocking into her own. The moan this earns him is music to his ears and so he does it again, then once more, builds his pace steadily. “Fuck, you feel so good, sweetheart,” he snarls, teeth at her throat, skin slick and salty. 

Her arms wind around his neck, hands threading through his hair, pulling herself up, and he can feel her lips at his jaw. Gliding over his cheek, down his throat, and to his shoulder, relentless in her own need for him. Cordelia meets his thrusts, rolls into each and every one, and he wants to take all of her sounds, bottle them up, and keep them forever.

“Mason, fuck, _yes_ ,” she sighs, nips at his collarbone, and that almost does it — he growls, curls a hand into her waist, and braces the other against the back of the seat, digging into the fabric. “Just a little to the — oh, _oh_ , yes, right there.”

They fall into a rhythm, natural and synchronous — an ebb and flow, give and take, two halves of the same whole. He knows her body as she knows his, both carrying a map of the other buried in their hearts, and he doubts he will ever forget it. Even if he lived a thousand centuries or more, there is no forgetting her. 

She is a part of him, permanent and interwoven, a piece of him that can never be removed.

Bodies curving together, they ride out their pleasure. He drags his hand away from her hip, over her stomach, and then down, slips it between them, finds his mark. Swirls two fingers around her clit and the broken, keening cry she gives fills the space between them as her back curves.

“Mason,” she breathes and slides one of her hands down his spine, lets it settle at his lower back, and the touch is searing, burns through him. Her lips are on his ear then, teeth nibbling at the shell, and he groans. 

He fucks her, touches her, until his name is all she knows, the only word left to pass through those beautiful lips. She repeats it like a litany, and he never tires of it, never wants her to stop. His name only truly means something when she is the one saying it, he thinks.

The hand at his back clenches, nails biting into the flesh, and oh, she’s close now.

“That’s it, Starlight,” he croons, presses a kiss to the side of her mouth, and she shivers, his hips snapping forward in response, “come for me, you’re so close now, just let go.”

Traces another circle around her clit, rolls his thumb over it, and she shatters. Unravels in his hands and he revels in it. Her body goes bowstring taut, hands grasping at him, and she gasps, his name falling from her lips like a deluge, each one blending into the next, and through it all, he fucks her, keeps his pace mercilessly.

A familiar tightness is building within him, coiling in on itself, and he knows he won’t be far behind.

His thrusts are starting to become erratic now, harsh and quick, but she meets them all. Even as she settles, coming down from her high, body languid and loose, she keeps pace with him — rocks her hips against his own, urging him toward his own completion.

Mason can feel himself at the edge, feet dangerously close to the ledge, and in the end, all it takes is a whisper — his name, gentle and sweet, and he falls. 

The sound that leaves him is primal, cracking and fierce, and he buries his face in the crook of her neck. Breathes in the scent of her — lavender and citrus and a hint of salt, now — and moans her name, voice hitching, breaking at the edges. His fingers curl into her hip, hard enough to bruise, and she lets him, holds him as he comes apart and rebuilds himself inside of her.

Eventually, he regains control and that tightness is gone, replaced by a spreading warmth, satisfied and comfortable. He slumps, panting, and for a long moment, neither of them move — both content to bask in the afterglow of their shared pleasure. Then, she moves first, muttering about a cramp in her leg, and he pulls back. Sets the leg in question down and she sighs, nodding her thanks.

Smiles at him, shy and gentle, and he returns it, unable to help himself.

“Hey,” she whispers, presses a hand over his heart, and he covers it with his own. Laces their fingers together and bows his head, lips brushing over her fingertips.

“Hi,” he says, tilts forward, and drops another kiss to her forehead, grinning. “Told you I’d get you into this backseat, sweetheart.”

She laughs and playfully shoves at him, but he remains where he is, trailing kisses along her cheek and jaw. “I don’t know if I can drive, my legs feel like jelly,” she tells him and he chuckles.

Allows himself a moment to feel proud and then sits back. Slides out of her carefully, with a barely there _pop!_ , and slowly, pulls off the condom. Cracks open the passenger door and tosses it out, only to have a foot slap against his hip. “What now?”

“That’s littering!”

“What are you going to do, arrest me?”

“No, but I could give you a fine!”

“I’ll pay it,” he muses, grabs her ankle, and yanks her toward him, earning himself an adorable shriek. “But, only if you promise to use the handcuffs.”

She pushes herself and frees her leg from his grasp, tucking it underneath her. “You’re impossible,” she huffs and then crosses her arms, giving him a quick once over, “and thanks to your little stunt, you’re _definitely_ driving the rest of the way.”

“I guess I have no choice but to accept my punishment,” he laments only to grunt when she reaches down and grabs his shirt, throwing it at him.

They dress silently, the quiet only broken here or there by faint laughter as they wiggle back into their clothes — she does take a moment to mourn the loss of her underwear and he promises, again, to buy her another pair — and it’s nice, he thinks, to share these types of moments with her. Is still getting used to them, to the staying, but as they climb out of the car and walk around, Cordelia stopping him as they pass one another to give him a quick kiss, he thinks it might just be something _worth_ getting used to.

He squeezes into the driver seat — pausing to let the seat back as far as it will go — and hopes, as he always does when relying on this rust bucket for transportation, that it will get them back to the Warehouse. At his side, Cordelia settles into the passenger seat and though she tries to put on a strong front, he can see that she is already losing her fight against sleep.

To his immense relief, the car pulls back onto the road with minimal issue and he flips on the lights, though he hardly needs them, just in case she decides to count that as part of his growing criminal record, too.

Silence settles over them and for a time, he is content to let it sit, to lose himself in the sounds of her — that gentle cadence of her heart and the steady rhythm of her breathing, both at ease now, returned to normal. In fact, it is not until he can just make out the roof of the Warehouse that he speaks, a smirk on his lips. 

“I guess you were right, I did have fun tonight,” he teases, an echo of her earlier attempts to coax him into attending the party in the first place. When he gets no response, however, he blinks and turns, a bubble of emotion forming right under his heart at the sight that greets him.

She is asleep. Head lolled to the side, facing him, and eyes closed, lids fluttering from whatever dream her mind has conjured up.

Mason quickly tears his eyes away from her and back onto the road, swallowing a lump forming in his throat. Still, he cannot quite stop himself from sneaking glances at her, out of the corner of his eye, and as he slows to a halt, turning the car off, he sighs. Debates with himself if he should just wake her or try to carry her back to her room and in the end, the decision is an easy one.

Quietly, he climbs out of the car and heads around to the other side. Opens the door, lightly as he can, and takes her into his arms, then shuts it behind him with his foot. She stirs, briefly, before her face buries against his chest and that bubble bursts, spreads through him, wraps around his heart and clenches.

“Come on, sweetheart, let's get you to bed.”

It is easy enough to make it inside, down the winding hallways, and to her bedroom. He slips inside, maneuvers his way through the dark and toward her bed. Lays her down, gently as he can, and tugs the blankets up to her chin. She curls into herself and he reaches for her, fingers itching to brush away a lock of hair from her face, but he stops. Hesitates. Pulls his hand back and sighs, tucking it into his pocket.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

He leaves. Shuts the door behind him and lets her rest, and prays to whatever force might be listening, that he can get some rest too.

They’ve both earned it, he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one asked for this. I wrote this and I didn't even ask for it. I'm so sorry, trust me, I never wanted this to happen, but it did, and now we must all suffer the consequences of my actions. Anyway, I hate this, and it's probably still super messy because after a certain point my eyes clocked out, so yes.
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated, thank you for reading! <3

**Author's Note:**

> So this got a second part and I'm never looking at it again.
> 
> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! Thanks for reading!


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